I Am Eros, and Eros is Me
by Slytherkins
Summary: Victor is a theatrical director who's recently relocated to Japan, and his new neighbor really should take more care to close his curtains. AU written in response to tumblr prompt. (Also, the site ate some formatting and doesn't seem to want to update the corrections. If you get halfway through and feel like you missed something. You did: the break in the formating. Sorry.)


Victor really needed to buy some curtains. He'd just moved to Japan and hadn't properly fitted his new apartment. Living on the third floor, perhaps the need would seem less urgent to some, since it wasn't as if passers by on the street would be able to see you walk across the living room naked after a shower if you'd left your dressing gown on the back of the sofa.

Passers by might not, but neighbors on the same floor of the building across from you would.

Yes, Victor needed to buy some curtains, because the man living directly across the way seemed incapable of properly utilizing his own, and Victor had lost count of the times, just that past week, when he'd glanced up from whatever script he was reviewing to spy his neighbor casually strolling through his apartment completely starkers, his curtains dangling bunched and useless on either side of his window.

It had embarrassed Victor at first. He'd assumed the man's exhibitionism was accidental and Victor's voyeurism unknown, and it felt like a violation of some sort. But the more frequently it happened, the less bothered Victor became. He still didn't think the man was intentionally flaunting himself, but he seemed supremely unconcerned by the possibility that others might see him, and so Victor didn't concern himself with it, either.

For a while.

It was becoming increasingly distracting, though. Victor had gotten to a point where, whenever he noticed movement in his peripheral, his eyes rose automatically to his living room window.

The man wasn't exceptional. Not at a glance. He was comparatively short, possessing the same brown eyes and black hair as most of those whom Victor met on his morning stroll to the bus stop each morning. There was a music to his movements, though. Despite that he seemed to be in less than top condition, having rounded a bit in the tum and around the hips, Victor thought he could tell the man had once been athletic. Possibly even a dancer.

Whenever the possibility occurred to him, Victor shook his head to shoo it from his mind. He was a theatrical director and seemed to see dancers everywhere; on the stage, in his dreams, even in line ahead of him at the coffee shop. He couldn't stop himself from wondering about the man entirely, though. Sometimes, Victor would find his choreography hanging neglected in his hand as he gazed at his neighbor, sitting on his couch with his bare skin stained blue from the light of his TV screen, and he'd realize he'd spent the last several minutes daydreaming about the life of the man on the third floor across the way.

In one of his favorite daydreams, Victor fancied the man a skater, robbed of a promising career by an unexpected injury that left him unable to return to the ice. There was a certain fluid precision to the way he stooped to pick up litter, or in the way he pivoted around the room as he swept. On occasion, the man would step into his living room fresh from the bath, his squarish glasses missing, his black strands swept back out of his face, and Victor could imagine the moisture beading on his forehead from his wet hair to be sweat evoked by a particularly grueling routine.

Then the man would stretch, or bend to retrieve his dropped towel, and Victor could imagine that sweat having been evoked by a very different strenuous activity, and he would blush and suddenly remind himself he was meant to be blocking act three.

When he wasn't doing anything overtly distracting, though, Victor realized he'd become almost inured to the man's chronic nakedness. It was practically like having a roommate. Victor had not been in this strange country long enough to have made any actual friends, and the man's presence was a comfort in some ways. Victor didn't strictly have time to socialize, but viewing his neighbor's daily domesticity helped keep him from becoming too lonely. He'd had the mad thought, more than once, that perhaps he should go and introduce himself. But then he'd have to explain why he'd chosen that specific apartment door to knock on, and Victor couldn't come up with an excuse that wasn't excruciatingly embarrassing, possibly for both of them.

Victor had been settled in for approximately a month when he stepped out of the coffee shop on the corner to head to his bus stop one morning. He was reviewing changes to the musical score, not paying much attention to where he was going, and almost immediately collided with someone jogging down the sidewalk. Victor's coffee spilled down the front of his blazer, but both were black and the damage was not catastrophic. Nevertheless, the man who had collided with him was profusely apologetic, stooping to retrieve Victor's dropped papers before attempting to help him with the spreading wetness down his front.

Victor instantly recognized the graceful sweep of the arm that reached urgently to collect a napkin that had been abandoned on a nearby table, and his breath hitched in his chest. The man's touch as he patted the cooling stain on Victor's shirt was jolting, because when the man looked up at him, his eyes full of embarrassed apology, Victor found he knew his face. The blue sweatband he wore was endearingly kitschy; or perhaps it was simply the novelty of seeing him dressed in any fashion at all that Victor found charming.

"Oh!" he exclaimed softly. "I think we're neighbors." He was so surprised to find them face to face, the remark had fallen from his lips without him quite meaning for it to.

The man stopped patting him and looked interested. "Oh, yes? Are you part of the American family that just moved into 205?"

"No," Victor stammered, his cheeks warming. "I don't live in your building. I think I live across from it. 307?"

The significance of the number occurred to the man, and Victor watched his cheeks redden to match his Victor's. The man's hand rose to the back of his head in an absent, embarrassed gesture.

"Ah. Gomen, gomen. That unit has been vacant for such a long time, I don't even notice it anymore," he admitted with an uneasy chuckle.

"Do you jog every morning?"

The man gave him a curious look. Victor supposed it was a rather odd question to ask a perfect stranger.

"I used to," he shrugged, tugging self-consciously at the fabric stretched ever so slightly more tightly around his midsection. "I decided to start again."

As the man spoke, an engine roared past them on the street, and Victor looked up just in time to see his bus pull off without him. He cursed quietly under his breath.

"Yours?" the man asked with an apologetic wince. Victor smiled at him to show he wasn't really put out. He'd have called off work entirely if he'd been able, just to acquaint himself further with his new friend.

"I suppose I'm walking to work today," Victor sighed. "Do you happen to know how to get to the Aoyama Theatre from here?"

"Do you work at the Aoyama?" the man asked brightly. Victor was practically glowing himself, now.

"I'm directing a show that will be playing there in April. Do you know it?"

"I've performed there many times," his friend nodded, seeming to remember the experience fondly. "I used to be a dancer," he explained, shrugging bashfully at the past tense. Victor's heart fluttered in his chest. He'd just _known_ he was a dancer. Well, that or a figure skater.

"Here, I'll walk you, shall I?" the man offered. "It's not far."

"Used to be?" Victor asked as they turned to make their way to the theatre they both loved. "What happened?" He was on tenterhooks, but the man blushed, and Victor realized he was being not only rude but forward.

"Victor Nikiforov," Victor stammered, hoping to quickly rectify the situation, shifting his coffee to his left hand in order to offer his right to his 'new' friend.

"Katsuki Yuuri," the man said with a nod, shaking Victor's hand shyly but with a warm smile. "Welcome to Japan."

...

Victor and Yuuri crashed through the front door of Victor's apartment, their sake-stained lips locked feverishly together. _Ye gods_. The Japanese man's typically shy demeanor was misleading. After a few drinks, he became a fiery god of passion. This man was Eros incarnate. He was desire made flesh. He was bold and seductive, and the contrast disarmed Victor entirely.

It had taken two full weeks of daily chatting in front of the coffee shop for Victor to finally work up the nerve to ask Yuuri to dinner. The man's new jogging routine had already melted away much of the softness Victor had admired when they'd first 'met', and the hips Victor grasped to steer Yuuri to his couch were slim. They fit into his palms as if the two parts had been made for one another.

Having reached the sofa, however, Yuuri decided he'd be the one to direct. He broke away from their kiss to place his hands firmly on Victor's chest and topple him with a shove to fall over the armrest and onto the couch before stalking forward and scaling the man, straddling Victor's entirely unambiguous erection.

"Wow," Victor breathed almost inaudibly as he took in the sight of his new 'friend' gazing down at him with undisguised lust.

The Russian was overwhelmed. A dancer's grace infused Yuuri's every movement. They were almost feminine. The answering hard on pressed insistently against Victor's thigh, however, was undeniably male. The androgyny was divine, and it wasn't just drink that clouded Victor's head.

The smile that twisted Yuuri's lips was positively indecent, and he dipped to bring them closer to Victor's (which had fallen open in silent awe) when something distracted the smaller man. Disconcerted by the sudden cessation of very pleasant attention, Victor struggled to turn to see what it was Yuuri was staring at; and when he worked it out, he groaned inwardly.

Yuuri's living room was clearly visible through Victor's window which _still_ did not possess curtains, and the man on top of him had recognized it. The moment was awkward. There might be no salvaging things. Still, Victor threw his hands up to beg understanding, his stammered explanation barely starting to take shape in his sake-soaked brain, when Yuuri smirked, looking back down at Victor demandingly but not in an angry way.

"You 'think' we're neighbors?" Yuuri asked, repeating what Victor had said when they met. His smirk turned lascivious.

Victor shrugged, grateful that the man moved closer instead of away.

"Well, I was fairly certain. It was admittedly difficult to recognize you in clothes," he said, his eyes unable to tear themselves from the mouth he could still taste and craved again. It did not descend completely, though, despite how his own reached for it.

"Let's remove all doubt, shall we?" Yuuri asked, drawing back, his hands catching the hem of his shirt as they rose to peel it up and off. Victor heard a grateful moan escape his lips. His eyes were well acquainted with this torso. Now his hands would be, as well. He pressed them to Yuuri's chest with a contented sigh, sweeping them hungrily over the familiar planes of his body. The other man laid his own hands on top of them, pressing Victor's palms even more firmly to his skin and throwing his head back with a soft moan as he urged them where he wanted them, his back arched gracefully. Victor was in raptures.

Yuuri directed Victor's fingers to the clasp of his jeans, and Victor made short work of it, releasing a part of the man he was unaccustomed to seeing so swollen and erect. But once it was free, Yuuri seemed to decide he was tired of being the only one naked.

"How fond are you of this shirt?" he purred, slipping his fingers between the buttons to stroke Victor's chest with reaching fingertips. Victor shuddered in anticipation.

"Not at all, really," he said tremblingly.

It was a blatant lie. Victor loved this shirt. It was, however, not nearly as coveted at the moment as the feel of their skin pressed together. Yuuri seemed to sense the fib, but he nonetheless smiled and ripped the thing open, every single one of Victor's buttons becoming a sacrifice to the wanton god that straddled him.

Yuuri ran his hands across Victor's bare chest. "You look as tasty as katsudon," he murmured, seeming almost to drool. He bent to devour the creamy flesh of Victor's stomach, and the Russian squirmed.

"Wh...what's katsudon?" he asked around a moan.

"The reason I have to jog in the mornings," Yuuri grinned, sliding up to reclaim Victor's mouth. "Mm. You might be even tastier," he whispered, licking his lips. "Let's see." Then he slipped back down to free Victor from his increasing tight pants.

Yuuri stripped them, tossing them carelessly to the floor before hooking his fingers beneath the thin band of Victor's tiny black underwear.

Victor wouldn't have thought he could become any harder than he was already, but the way Yuuri examined his now freed cock somehow managed it. Victor refused to become self-conscious. He knew he wasn't exactly impressive, as these things go, but he was not ashamed of his size.

Yuuri, too, seemed satisfied with it, and Victor's fondness for the man turned to unquestionable smittenness when Yuuri bent to attach his mouth to the base of Victor's shaft.

Victor's head fell back onto the cushion and he muttered a stream of encouragement he knew his partner could not understand as it was in Russian; but it would have to suffice, as Victor's brain could no longer find the Japanese words for the things he was asking Yuuri to do, assuming he'd known them in the first place.

Yuuri could apparently intuit Victor's instructions, as he kissed his way to Victor's leaking tip, taking it deep in his mouth with almost no hesitation.

Victor groaned, his fingers finding their way into Yuuri's thick black hair almost of their own volition. Some other time, perhaps, they would take things slowly, but there was something decidedly urgent about the evening. They were swept up in each other, riding a wave of passion that was not born of the liquor in their veins, simply released by it.

"So much better than katsudon," Yuuri muttered, breathless, as Victor's cock fell free of his lips and he scrambled back up to press them to Victor's.

Victor was not given a chance to respond, because as soon as Yuuri relinquished his mouth, the dancer wasted no time at all in reaching back to position the Russian's raging erection and carefully ease himself down over it.

Yuuri was not careful enough, though. The alcohol he'd imbibed might prevent him from feeling it at the moment, but he definitely would come morning, Victor had no doubt. Not that Victor was complaining. It was miraculous. The dark haired man ground himself lower and lower, and Victor could feel Yuuri's insides shift to accommodate him until the other man had managed to envelop him completely.

With no hesitation whatsoever, Yuuri rode him hard, and Victor could do little but cling to Yuuri's thighs and pray, responding to each moan that fell, with increasing volume, from Yuuri's mouth with every impact. It was raw and spectacular, and though it was short, Victor didn't think he could have survived it for much longer anyway. He gave a small cry of bittersweet relief when Yuuri spattered Victor's bare chest, and moments after, Victor felt himself pump deep inside of the man in answer.

Neither cared about the mess. Yuuri dissolved to pool in a panting mess atop Victor, and Victor was so shattered, he barely had it in him to bring his arms around his new lover. He felt almost bad to have contributed so little to the encounter, but he'd been too overwhelmed to do anything more than submit himself to Yuuri's ravishment. At least Yuuri seemed to have no complaints. Well, not with Victor's performance.

"I might have overdone it," Yuuri mumbled, sleepy but obviously pleased as he melted further against Victor. "I haven't been that active in a while. I used to much more energetic... When I was in better shape," he added with a small, embarrassed laugh.

Holy god. Victor could hardly imagine what Yuuri was capable of in top form. But the possibilities excited him.

"Well, then we'll just have to schedule regular 'workouts'," he whispered meaningfully, tightening his embrace and laying a small kiss on the top of Yuuri's head.

Yuuri pulled back to look up at Victor, a grin spreading across his face which turned slowly lecherous as his gaze caressed the Russian's features. "Oh, yes?" he said with a twitch of his eyebrow. "Will you be my coach?"

Victor shivered. He could think of nothing he'd enjoy more.


End file.
